


Snow Rise

by AiraKay



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:32:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiraKay/pseuds/AiraKay
Summary: Injured and alone, Caleb Widogast takes a moment to contemplate the falling snow and his place in the world.





	Snow Rise

The dagger in his ribs, Caleb finds, is not a huge surprise. Injuries, even ones so grievous as this, are somehow the norm with the Mighty Nein and their perhaps reckless disregard for their own safety. Caleb is not one for rushing in, but takes his share of blows all the same. Usually, someone is around to revive him when he falls unconscious. But, now, the woods around him are quiet, his hands sticky with blood.

Caleb is, in the end, alone, and that doesn’t surprise him, either.

What does surprise him is the cold, bitter and biting to his bones. He didn’t think he could feel chilly like this, anymore, not really. His coat smolders beneath him, snuffing stray sparks from the final firebolt that slayed his foe, but he can’t feel any warmth from it. Smoke curls up into his matted hair, twining around his face like a friendly cat. He’s made of fire, now. It’s in his bones and breath and heartbeat. That’s been his truth since he was seventeen, or maybe even before that.

But it’s deserted him, now. Caleb shivers, pressing on the hole in his stomach. He’s seen wounds like this before -- he’ll bleed out, slowly but surely, if he’s not careful. If he doesn’t do something, soon. The ground is so comfortable, though, padded with freshly fallen snow under his head. A small rest can’t hurt. Flakes speckle across his face as he stares at the sky, dark so early this late in the year. It’s nice, looking up into the snowstorm, watching the woods fill up.

Caleb closes his eyes.

A snort and a stomp startles them open again. That’s right. He’d ridden Lou out here, clumsily but he’d managed not to slip off. The horse is still present, probably wondering what he's doing sleeping. Lou stamps again, shaking the bells Jester had braided into the horse’s mane before they separated, smiling big despite nerves, “so we can be extra sure to find you guys when we regroup. You better not die on us, I will be so mad at you if you do, Caleb.” They ring loud over the low whistle of wind, the gentle patter of flakes muffled by the already fallen snow.

The woods are lovely and dark and so, so forebodingly deep, the sort of place a person could wander for eons without finding an exit, only paths further and further in. No one will find him here, if they even bother to look. And why would they? Caleb knows the truth of himself. He isn’t even useful, now. The fire in him is finally gone, and he doesn’t know if it will return. He hopes it won’t; perhaps, now, he can sleep free of nightmares. He’ll take his usual path, just go along with this, just like always.

But, his brain reminds him, the Mighty Nein are waiting.

Eyes half-closed, he remembers them, each memory clear as the moment it happened. Not all pleasant, and some downright strange, but through thick and thin, this group of shady people has stayed together. Even knowing what he has done, having seen the rotted, filthy, tattered thing that is his soul, they have kept him all this time. He thinks he can see them, almost, standing around watching him. Fjord, fathoms deep and full of mystery, steady and solid and reasonable. Jester, mischief and light and all that is sweet; she helps remind him that he can laugh. Beau, bold and brash and so painfully young in how she interacts with the world but still willing to call him friend after he has dumped all of his shit onto her. Yasha, an enigma, comforting in just how awkward she is because it means he isn’t alone in that. Mollymauk, a cacophonous whirlwind of color hiding a man who woke up empty and chooses to be not necessarily good, but kind to those who need it. And Nott, his dear friend Nott, the first one Caleb gave his trust to, the one who is always putting him first even though he in no way deserves it. He never has, and yet she keeps caring with a faith he can’t begin to comprehend. She might mourn him, he realizes. They all might.

Caleb Widogast is many things. He is an asshole, and a conman, and a coward, and the worst sort of garbage human being, and, overall, a bad man. He is a member of the Mighty Nein.

With some effort, Caleb heaves himself up to sitting, unwrapping the worn linen around his hands Whatever uncharred fabric bits he can find on the renegade smuggler he packs into the wound, wrapping the bandages to hold them in place. The effort leaves him panting.

 _Just a small rest_ , a tiny, traitorous voice not his own whispers across his brain.

Caleb grits his teeth. “Time for that later,” he replies, and staggers to his feet, gripping a low-hanging branch. One foot in front of another brings him limping to Lou, and he hooks a hand in the horse’s reins. He uses a rock to mount, though it’s more of a flop, scrabbling for a moments before settling and threading his fingers into Lou’s mane.

The Mighty Nein expect him back. Less immediately, there are books to read, magic to learn. Caleb has promises to keep. His heels weakly urge Lou onward, into the direction of the last inn they stayed at, their agreed upon meeting point. He has miles to go before he can sleep. Bells jingle at every step, cutting through the silent snow, Caleb jolting along slowly and surely and praying his wound doesn’t bleed him dry. And suddenly, there is another sound. Singing? No, the chorus of voices is calling out one word only, a word he knows.

His name.

Warmth fills his chest, so different from the flames that have burned in his skull -- and those are still there, he realizes now, banked for the time being but ready to flare up with the right fuel -- “Time for that later,” he repeats. The voices are growing closer, he thinks, but the world is a little hazy around the edges, blurring in a way that reminds him of frost around a windowpane. He thinks he manages a hoarse shout of response.

“Caleb, is that you? Where are you? Are you hurt? You can reply to this message!” Nott’s words tumble out in a rapid torrent around him, clear and sharp and oh so present. The wizard slumps over with a weak chuckle.

“I am here, Nott. By the lake.” His voice comes out a feeble croak.

“We’re on our way to you, we’ll be right there!”

Caleb Widogast has promises to keep, and miles to go before he can sleep, but he isn’t walking alone any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> As may be obvious this was heavily inspired by Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Thanks to asg_creations and drekkeri for beta-ing for me. ^^


End file.
